August 7th, 6:39am
John wakes up suddenly on the morning of his birthday, jerked into wakefulness as though he'd had an alarm set that only he could hear. It's early, but the heavy air promises that the day is going to be another hot one; they've had a string of them for the past week and Sherlock and John have both made the absolute most of the summer holiday in the little paddling pool outside. John doesn't care about that today, though, because today he's nine and that's a whole lot bigger than eight. He'd reminded Greg a lot about the bike, terrified that the man would forget (even though John knows, really, that he won't) but he hasn't seen even a hint of the red frame or the tassels on the handlebars. He's trying not to be worried, not yet, and instead of thinking about it (and instead of darting downstairs to see if the bike is there, which he would very much like to do), he sits up and reaches out to rub at Sherlock's curls.
"Sherlock!" he whispers hoarsely, and that's all it takes for those blue eyes to flash wide open, white teeth suddenly exposed in a smile. The dark haired boy is alert almost instantly and he sits up with a full-on grin that makes John want to just leap out of bed and start shrieking with glee. There's something about seeing Sherlock's lips curled like that, in a real, proper smile, that John knows he'll never grow tired of.
He returns the grin, his own complete with gaps where his old teeth had fallen out, and slivers and snatches of big-kid teeth that are all still coming through. Sherlock can't tell him happy birthday, of course, but he holds up nine fingers and John nods happily. "Yep, nine today!" For a moment the words seem to leave him breathless and John remembers another time, another birthday, when his mum would crouch beside him while he was still in bed and sing to him, small and quiet so Daddy wouldn't wake up too soon, and she'd bring him hot chocolate and John would curl up in her lap.
It takes Sherlock pressing crumpled paper into his hands for John to take a deep breath and focus on now, today; Sherlock. Greg. Molly. These are his family now, and he misses his old one desperately, painfully, but he loves this one, too. He's realising, slowly, that he can have both. That loving this family doesn't mean he has to forget his mum or his dad or the sister he doesn't remember properly, but sometimes it just hits him how much it hurts that they're gone.
His fingers shake just a little as he opens the folds on the paper and John stifles a choke as he looks down and realises what it is he's holding. Sherlock has written him a letter. These are words, real words, from Sherlock; the first they've exchanged in their lives.
John
Happy birthday. You are 9. I am happy you are here with me.
Love
Sherlock
John reads it once, twice, a third time. He drinks the words in, realises what it must have taken for Sherlock to painstakingly select them, figure out how to arrange and spell them by himself because he cannot ask Lestrade to help him, cannot tell Lestrade what he wants to say. For an instant, it is Sherlock with the words and John left in silence because he doesn't know what to say.
Sherlock's watching him nervously, but there's a hint of pride in his mouth, a smile ready to break over his lips at a moment's notice. He has his left hand wound into Tagger's tag, his thumb rubbing idle circles into the worn fabric as he waits. John coughs deeply, tries to ignore the way his chin is wobbling as he launches himself at Sherlock and hugs him fiercely.
They cling together for a long moment as John discreetly tries to rub his tears away on Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock buries his head into the other boy's neck and is almost overwhelmed with pride and happiness. The moment is ended swiftly as the two overbalance and crash sideways, landing in a tangled sprawl on the floor, Tagger caught somewhere in the mix. They are still prying themselves apart, John carefully making sure the letter is okay and folding it back up the way it had been when he'd received it, when Greg comes rushing in, panicked by the noise.
He looks between the two and shakes his head a little, stretching widely and giving a yawn. "Come on then, boys," he says once he's done, stepping out of the doorway and jerking his head at the stairs. "Might as well get started on breakfast."
"Pancakes!" John declares at once, because it is his birthday and therefore his choice. Sherlock nods his agreement. They never eat pancakes for breakfast; they're a treat, Greg says, not a healthy start to the day, but today is the one day he can't say no.
"Pancakes with broccoli," Greg negotiates with a quick grin. "You can't have all that sugar for breakfast, John!"
"Yes we can!" John insists, darting ahead and taking the stairs two at a time until he bursts into the kitchen, looking around excited and expectant. It's empty of his bicycle. There's a wrapped box sitting on the table and John takes the moment before Greg reaches him to let the anguish wash across his face, disappointment like a weighted thing pulling his shoulders down. He thinks he might cry, until he remembers that he's nine now and nine year olds are too big for that.
"Happy birthday John!" Grey says loudly, stepping past John into the kitchen and picking up the box, holding it out with a grin John can't bring himself to return. Sherlock slips in past John, too, but pauses when he notices the look on John's face, reaching back to grab hold of the other's sleeve.
"I..." John mumbles quietly, voice straining to get past the lump in his throat. "I just..." The kitchen is blurring over with disappointment and John is furious with himself but he can't help it; he'd wanted that bicycle so badly, and he'd really thought that maybe, just maybe, it would happen. "Thanks, Greg," he manages to whisper, moving forwards as Greg puts the box down on the table to be unwrapped, apparently not noticing John's almost-tears.
Sherlock leads the way to the table, pressing his fingers interestedly against the neat wrapping before he glances up at John with an encouraging sort of smile. It helps, a little, and John sniffs with a stern word to himself to stop being a baby. He moves towards the table and takes his own seat, tugging the box towards him as Greg gets started whisking pancake ingredients together, watching surreptitiously.
The wrapping is pulled apart carefully, until John sees the picture on the box, and then he rips it open and tosses the separate pieces to the floor with a gasp. He stares around, wild eyed, to look at Greg, hardly daring to hope that maybe, just maybe...
Greg gives a slight nod and a gently pointed look towards the closed living room door and John jumps off his chair so fast he stumbles. Sherlock moves the rest of the wrapping paper aside to see that what John's opened is a brand new bicycle helmet, which must mean-
"Greg!" John shrieks from the other room. "Sherlock! Come look! Thank you thank you thank you!"
Lestrade abandons the ingredients at once, grabbing a disposable camera he'd had at the ready before he races into the living room to snap a photo of John as he's standing admiring the bright red bicycle in the middle of the room. Sherlock appears at his elbow and can't stop the slightly awed intake of breath that hisses through his teeth; somehow, in their very own living room, the bike seems even better than it had ever looked in the shop.
John hops up onto the seat, accompanied by another flash of the camera, and he lets out a high-pitched sort of muted scream of excitement that makes Sherlock giggle a little. "Come on, Sherlock!" John encourages, and Sherlock walks towards him and allows himself to be helped onto the back of the thing. If John stands up instead of sitting, holding the bike steady, Sherlock can sit on the seat and hold onto John's pajamas to keep from falling off.
Lestrade takes another photo, grinning with unabashed pride and delight. "Happy birthday, John."
"Thank you so much!" John breathes in a rush of gratitude, not even looking at Greg but staring at the bicycle beneath him. "Can we go test it out? Now?"
"In the garden, sure - breakfast'll be in ten."
Sherlock clambers off and follows behind John as he slowly and carefully wheels the best present in the whole world out through the kitchen. On the way through, Sherlock grabs the helmet box and Lestrade quickly pops it open for him to take to John, as well as the elbow and knee pads that came with it.
It takes most of their allotted ten minutes to kit John up, Sherlock strapping the pads in place and both of them fumbling with the helmet strap until Greg helps, shortening it so it sits snugly against John's chin and rapping his knuckles on the top with a rueful grin. "Feel right?"
"Yup!"
"Off you go, then." Greg steps back and Sherlock moves to wait beside him as they watch John kick himself off a little before he puts his feet on the pedals and cycles furiously, propelling himself the entire length of the garden in just a few seconds. He's back again a moment later, laughing so loudly he must've woken up half the neighbourhood, but none of them care.
"This is the best birthday ever!" John declares, red-faced and bright-eyed, spilling delight and happiness that Sherlock thinks he could scoop up off the ground if he tried hard enough.
Greg laughs at him and claps him on the shoulder. "Well, the best birthday ever's going to have to be paused for a few minutes so you boys can eat breakfast," he says, turning back to the kitchen as John reluctantly dismounts and props his bicycle against the wall of the house, trailing his fingers over it as he walks past it to go back inside.
He eats breakfast with his helmet still on, rushing it down so fast he feels sick, and he darts back out again as soon as his plate is clear to get back on his bike. Sherlock changes seats so he can watch John through the window, not even halfway through his own pancakes, and Lestrade flops down beside him with his own plate.
The two sit in comfortable silence as they eat, watching John with near identical expressions, and when Sherlock is done he slides off of his stool to head back out into the garden. He spends hours out there with John while Lestrade readies the house for the small party they're having for John's friends from school, running alongside the bicycle, trying to keep up. After a while John slips off and prompts Sherlock to hop on, guiding him up and down the lawn. It's a little too big and Sherlock's never learned how to ride a bike, but with John holding him up they manage a few laps before they trade places.
John's friends start to arrive, bearing gifts and grins and chasing out into the garden to admire the bike while Lestrade makes teas for the parents who don't want to leave right away. It's Jim who has the idea.
"Why don't you take it outside, John?" he asks, sidling up to him. His mum has slicked his hair for the party but it's fallen out of the tidy style a little, gelled tufts messed from running with the others.
"We are outside," John replies, glancing around before he shoots Jim a look that comes across as a little concerned.
"No," Jim says, waving a hand. "I mean outside - not just in your garden. There's loads of places around here you could ride a bike."
Sherlock's stomach drops at the thought and he reaches out for John's sleeve, but the older boy doesn't seem to notice. He's looking at Jim, glancing between him and the house where Lestrade is in the kitchen with the other parents. "We're not supposed to go out of the garden," he says slowly, uncertainly, and Sherlock knows that John is already sold. He's never been too caught up in following rules and it's clear that he's desperate to try his bike somewhere he can build up proper speed. Lestrade said they could go to the park tomorrow, or maybe later depending on when the party finished, but John's impatience is getting the better of him. "Greg would see us leave," he says, biting his lip, and Jim smiles.
"Nah," he says confidently. "There's loads of us out here, he won't notice you're gone, as long as you don't take too long. I'll stay here and make sure he doesn't find out."
John deliberates a moment longer before he grins. "Okay, thanks!" He turns to Sherlock and jerks his head. "C'mon, Sherlock," he says, quietly as though Lestrade can hear him from all the way inside. Sherlock doesn't want to go - he feels sick at the thought of leaving the safety of the garden - but he's not going to let John go alone. Swallowing, he falls into step beside him as John wheels his bicycle to the gate, opening it with expert hands and slipping through. Sherlock follows with two quick steps and John closes it behind him. "Quickly!"
He hops back on his bike, double-checks that his helmet is on right, and begins pedaling. Sherlock jogs to keep up, and starts to run as John goes faster, down the path and around the corner, past the trees and houses that look just like theirs. He's whooping at the top of his lungs, standing confidently on his pedals as he starts to fly, Sherlock slowly falling behind. His breaths are wheezes but he still gives chase, until he hears a noise that makes him stop so hard he trips over his own feet, tumbling painfully into concrete.
He lets out a slight gasp that goes unheard by John, already yards and yards ahead and caught up in the moment. Sherlock gets to his bloodied knees, pushing his hands up into his hair before he pushes them against his ears and closes his eyes. He can hear cars, the low rumble of their engines and the whoosh of wind as they speed by. He can hear them, feel them, he can see them, looming up out of nowhere and he can hear his life splinter around him with a screech of metal and screaming and brakes and an indicator clicking it's still clicking it won't stop clicking.
He's crying but he can't hear the tears, can't feel them as they trail down his cheeks - he doesn't feel the sting in his knees or the sun on his back. It's cold. It's snowing. There's a cake, still warm sponge - it was a dinosaur cake, because those were his favourite. It's his birthday. He's six. He asked for a telescope so he could watch the stars smile at him. Cold ice is biting into his skin, snow under his hands and head, glass against his cheek. Mummy. She can't see him, even though her eyes are open. She's not there. He's alone now. He'll be alone forever. He cries until the sirens drown him out.
Sherlock is still crying when he remembers how to open his eyes, his breathing erratic, chest pulling painfully against the air. He's still on his knees and they hurt; it's not snowing. The sun is shining, John is somewhere. John. Sherlock swallows hard and gets to his feet, shaking desperately. He wants his mum. His dad. He wants Lestrade to swoop down and gather him up and take him home. He wants John to be able to hear him when he says, This is a bad idea. But all he has is him, and Sherlock tells himself that that's enough.
He starts running again, pounding footsteps on shaky legs almost drowning out the sound of car engines as they scream past. He's running alongside the road - he can see John up ahead, he can hear himself screaming all those months ago, he can feel Mycroft's warm blood on his hands and he's crying, crying, crying and running and sobbing so hard he thinks his heart might come out his throat.
John. John. John. His name is every footstep that grounds Sherlock in the present, in the sunlight, in the silence. John.
He's closer now, still speeding on his bike but slowing, laughing loudly in a way that echoes inside Sherlock's head, as though he's too late and the sound was left behind for him to gather up. John turns as he sees Sherlock from the corner of his eye, not stopping. He lifts one hand to wave and he's not stopping. "Sherlock!" he calls out and he's not stopping.
Sherlock can't breath; he can see cars shooting past on the road in front of John but John isn't looking, he's looking at him and he's not stopping.
The wheel of his bicycle thuds down the curbside and John startles and there are cars and Sherlock can't remember if it's snowing or silent and he runs harder as John flinches and there's something in his mouth, he wants to scream but the silence is clinging to him until there's a screech of brakes and a bang like an explosion and a scream that slices through the whole world and Sherlock opens his mouth.
"JOHN!"
